


Trashbox Summer

by SpaceHotel



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHotel/pseuds/SpaceHotel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were ready to throw away your memories of past failures to start a new, fresh chapter of your life in the beautiful city of Paris. Something slow-paced and safe, where the only expectations you had to live up to were your own. Leave it to an overly-curious masked vigilante to unknowingly drag you right back into the very thing you were running away from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All spoken French in this story will be written between dialogue tags in italics. All other un-italicized dialogue is English.

Being poor sucked.

Perhaps that went without saying for inherently obvious reasons, but it had been your brain’s wholehearted belief that it bore repeating, ad infinitum. Such was the rotten ol’ luck of an unfinanced college student answering the call of higher education, in the beautiful city of Paris, no less.

It seemed as though nothing came cheaply in the city of love, from the small housing unit you’d acquired to the brown paper bag of groceries you had tucked away beneath your arms, a stinging reality you felt most strongly through the emptiness of your wallet. You had paid the kind older lady selling fresh produce on the street in nothing but a few crumpled dollar bills and an embarrassing handful of quarters—if that didn’t scream ‘impoverished college student’, you honestly didn’t know what would.

It was difficult, no doubt. Acclimating to a new environment, all while being marooned in a sea of new people with a differing culture and language, had been terribly nerve-wracking during your first three months abroad. You’d been all alone with little more than your luggage, the entirety of your savings, and a farewell allowance from your grandparent to help you settle into your new life here in France.

They were proud, your grandparents. You were off to bigger and better things, taking your first step towards adulthood and a blossoming career as an artist. If anyone could take hold of their bright and shinning future, they thought, it would definitely be you.

Yeah, right.

Truth was, your dream sounded good on paper, good enough to get you into the exchange student program at your university back home. Now that you were finally here though, you didn’t have a clue where to start. Sure, you were enrolled in a few advanced art classes along with the traditional course curriculum, but finding job opportunities in your field of interest outside of simple coursework on campus proved to be an extremely difficult endeavor. You had been optimistic at first, thinking it was only natural to run into such problems. You figured everyone had a rough start when it came to dealing with this sort of thing. What a hopeful, self-assuring sap you had been.

The only thing you had to be optimistic about now was the fact that you finally had something other than cheap cup ramen to keep stocked in your kitchen cabinets. The highlight of your day had been reduced to the purchasing of vegetables and snacks on a street corner.

“I think I need a drink,” you muttered derisively, making fun of your predicament with the appropriate amount of dark-humored sass it clearly deserved. You took a moment to readjust the grocery bag with one hand, the other preoccupied with keeping your phone pressed firmly against your ear, “And maybe a vacation.”

Never mind the fact that, technically, going to France was your vacation.

“Oh, please. Go home, stuff your face with ice cream. You’ll be fine,” your childhood friend reassured you, and you could almost feel her exaggerated eye roll through the phone’s crackling speakers. She had always been the calm and collected one. You, alternatively, were a hot mess in need of her wisdom and counseling.

“Fine? I’ll be fine, you say? I just held up a line full of busy people while a very sweet lady helped me count out my change to pay for my food. Oh sure, I know how to curse in three different languages, but I can’t remember how to count past twenty in French if my life depended on it—and my life kind of depends on it.”

Ashley hummed in thought before sighing. “Alright, let’s take a step back, yeah? Talk about something else. How’s the art project coming along?”

Oh, right. You had an art project, didn’t you? With the constant stress of school and low funds, the mere thought of working on anything of artistic value had served only to sour your mood rather than uplift it. Nothing you drew as of late seemed to flow effortlessly onto the pages of your notebooks the way it once had before your relocation to France. You figured that it was some sort of sign demanding that you take a well-needed break from it all to focus on other things, and focus on other things you did. So much so, in fact, that you had completely forgotten about your homework.

“It isn’t,” you lamely responded. “You actually just reminded me of it.”

“When is it due?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “In three days.”

The next five minutes were spent receiving a wordy lecture about the importance of keeping up good grades, and why were you so forgetful all of the time, and could you really not count past twenty in French? You responded to Ashley the same way you imagined a bashful child would while being scolded by a disappointed parent. She stayed on the phone with you as you explained your assignment and promised her you would head to the nearest museum before heading home to complete it.

Your train of thought revved up and rode away, carrying with it an endless list of the things you would need to do. With the sun hovering just above the horizon for at least another hour or two, there would barely be enough time and natural lighting to take a few photos of a notable museum. From there it wouldn't take long to look around at a few exhibits with an emphasis on architecture and take notes. You would need to have a docent write up a brief note to show to your professor as proof you had actually been there, and that you hadn't just Googled the necessary information.

Ashley's bubbly voice broke through your concentration as you turned briskly onto a less narrow street. "And be sure to take a few pictures of yourself while you're at it! You never send me any pictures."

"Only if you send me a few of your new boyfriend I've heard so much about, and before you question how I know, don't think for a second that I don't pseudo-stalk you on Facebook."

She paused. “Are you serious?”

“No, of course not. It was actually your mother who told me when we spoke last week. Congrats, by the way.”

Your words were met with a theatrical wail of embarrassment. You chuckled at your friend's expense before taking note of your surroundings. If you remembered correctly the Maison La Roche was just up ahead. It was a shame you had left your camera at home, but your phone would work just as well once you got there.

That was the plan anyway, until a loud noise all but stopped you in your tracks. 

Adrenaline raced through your veins like a long-forgotten friend, alerting you to the chaos erupting around you; people running, maniacal laughter, the shifting of the ground beneath your feet, the excited pitter-patter of your heart. You knew what was happening. This felt way too familiar.

There was a supervillain on the loose, and that supervillain was raising some serious hell.

“Look, Ash, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Wait, wha—?”

You didn’t wait for a response before you hung up. She would definitely be mad at you for a little while, but you were sure she would forgive you if she knew that there was a car exploding just a few feet down the road, holy shit shit shit.

This was not the relaxing Thursday afternoon you’d had in mind. People ran by you like an overflowing stream at high tide, toppling over each other in their need to escape the vicinity. The very Earth seemed to shake and tremor as though it too were afraid and disgruntled, and as another laser blast—a fucking laser blast?!—tore through a nearby building you figured that fear was a natural and healthy response to have. Yet somewhere buried deep beneath the dizzying panic resided a deeply rooted feeling, one that ran along your spine and urged you to take part in all the action.

And that wasn’t good at all.

You had nothing to do with heroism or villains. You were just a run-of-the-mill civilian trying to take ordinary pictures of typical things for your normal college art classes. There was no need to complicate things when there was nothing you could do in this situation.

And so like any other normal, mundane, run-of-the-mill citizen with a backwards sense of self-preservation, your ass was staying right where it was until you were finished getting the picture you wanted. Who’s to say this building would still be standing all in one piece come tomorrow? You told yourself that you didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Paparazzi and determined fans followed similar working conventions after all, risking life and limb over candid photos of unsuspecting superheroes in the act of, well, superhero-ing.

That’s a dumb excuse to stay, your brain kindly informed you, to which you kindly told your naysaying thoughts to shut the hell up because gosh darnit, you were already here and you really needed to have at least something done for your assignment.

With a deep breath, you willed the furious beating of your heart to slow into an evenly-paced tempo. You cleared your mind as best you could from the distractions around you and focused solely on the task at hand. The angle you were at was perfect, and if you could simply gain steady footing for one small moment you’d have at least part of what you came here for. That was good, right?

You placed your grocery bag down, squared your shoulders, straightened your stance, and held your breath to still your diaphragm just long enough to get the job done before you got the hell out of dodge—

That is, until a man clothed head to toe in black leather [1] came to stand directly in front of you right as you snapped the photo.

You were stunned into silence at his sudden appearance while some small, dusty part of your mind tried to place a name to his oddly familiar face. He gave you a confident smile and bowed dramatically at the waist, causing your eyebrows to furrow in both confusion and one-hundred percent undiluted frustration. He then stood back up to his full height and spoke in a smooth, drawling voice, seemingly unaware of your growing frown.

“Excuse me, miss! It's not safe here, as you can see,” he began in fluent French, and it took your inexperienced brain a moment to properly translate his words into something more than white noise buzzing about in your ears. “I would truly hate for you to get hurt!”

Your tongue seemed to tie itself into knots as you tried to force out a halfway coherent sentence in reply. The foreign language felt as clunky as always upon your lips. “No need to, uh . . . concern. Just one picture and I am finished.”

His response was not immediate. You could only imagine what he thought of you as he quizzically glanced from your deadpan expression to the small cellphone in your hands, still raised from your previously failed attempt to snap a shot of the museum before you. After a brief moment of silence you watched as the corners of his lips twitched themselves up into a boyish smirk.

“Couldn’t resist a picture of the great Chat Noir, my dear?”

Yeah, that was his name. Chat Noir, masked vigilante and loyal partner to the famous Ladybug. You had heard rumors of course—they were the pride and joy of Paris after all, the talk of the town, though their popularity seemed to be an entirely regional thing—and you were somewhat disappointed to see that Chat was evidently everything the rumors claimed him to be: insufferably egotistical.

“No,” you gestured to the structure behind him, exasperated by his antics, “you are actually in the way.” 

And he was standing too close, much too close for comfort. How were you expected to think and speak French properly when he was busy crowding your thinking space? When had it gotten so hard to breathe, and why were the palms of your hands so disgustingly clammy? When was the last time you had been this close to a superhero? You tried to think back, recount all the days and weeks and months, but it was hard to put everything into perspective.

Had you been more composed, you might have laughed at your current predicament. You could only hope he believed you were simply starstruck by his presence and totally not fighting off the feeling of just how uncomfortable he made you.

“Ah. Well, that simply won’t do,” he lamented, followed shortly after by a mocking sigh. With a shake of his head he gave a quick look over his shoulder, as though wondering what could possibly compel you to casually stick around for a picture of a building, of all things.

You honestly weren’t surprised by his reaction. Your logic was a little ass-backwards in hindsight, and the fact that you seemingly wanted to stay alarmed you more than it did him, probably. But what you didn’t expect was for the blond superhero to grab you like a sack of potatoes, hoist you over his narrow shoulder, and whisk you away right before that very same building came tumbling down like a flimsy house of cards.

You could have wept right then and there. (Think of all the poor art. And your homework!)

The museum had thankfully been evacuated before it collapsed, but it hurt to watch if fall to pieces all the regardless. Time-honored works of art were undoubtedly destroyed in the blink of an eye and you dearly hoped there hadn't been anyone still left inside. Perhaps Chat Noir felt the same, because he openly cringed at its crumbling remains.

“Yikes, I’ll never hear the end of that,” he mumbled to himself, and when his shoulders slumped down in dejection, you slumped right along with them. Seconds later he slid you into his arms before setting you down gently onto your unsteady feet. His lips were pursed, eyebrows drawn closely together. He was troubled by something as he looked off into the distance. You could relate.

If you looked closely and squinted your eyes just so, you could vaguely see the rampaging villain in the distance, jumping across rooftops with a clear path of destruction left in his wake. A lean, polka-dotted hero gave chase. The scene was quick to drown you in a sea of nostalgia. Suddenly you felt sick to your stomach.

Mistaking your troubled expression for fear, Chat Noir takes your hand and lays a soft kiss across your knuckles. You were too distraught to care about his forward display of affection.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you, I paw-mise.” You were too distraught to care about his terrible pun, too. Who jokes around at a time like this?! “And to do so, we’ll have to part ways, my dear. My partner needs all the help she can get.”

All you could do was nod. The masked hero bid you a safe farewell and waited until you had turned around to leave on painfully stiff legs before retreating himself. The uneasiness that had settled over you slowly disappeared with every step that distanced you from Paris’ dynamic crime-fighting duo, but the whole encounter seemed to have left a sour taste in your mouth.

More importantly, what would you do for your project now?!

Oh hell, who were you kidding? Your bad mood had nothing to do with your assignment and you knew it, even if you weren’t willing to admit it. That was the most exhilarated you had felt in months. Your heart had thrummed loudly in your ears, your blood had boiled in anticipation. You had enjoyed being so close to the chaos, didn't want to leave it all behind, and that feeling alone terrified you.

That couldn’t be normal. You didn’t want it to be normal. You were trying to be normal. Those heavy thoughts plagued you the entire way home.

It wasn’t until you had returned to your apartment thirty minutes later that you realized you were missing something rather important. You closed your eyes and promptly devolved into a fit of internal screaming, deciding you were emotionally checked out for the remainder of the day.

“. . . God fucking damnit.”

\---

And somewhere outside, enjoying the warm Parisian night, a leather-clad vigilante rubbed the back of his head and silently wondered who would leave a bag of seemingly fresh veggies and junk food on top of a garbage can. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I’ve read that Chat Noir’s suit isn’t actually made of leather, though leather is the closet comparable material. It’s easier for the sake of the story to just call it leather.
> 
> I have no idea what I’m doing writing this out of the blue, but it exists now and I already have the majority of a plot worked out. I have no regrets.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading!


	2. Chapter 2

_“—Andre Campbell, who had arrived in Paris Thursday morning, told police that he had no recollection of his actions leading up to the events that took place yesterday afternoon, prompting well-renowned crime fighters Ladybug and Chat Noir to make a public announcement earlier today concerning their two year hiatus. Investigations are now underway to determine the cause of this sudden increase of villainous activity. Local authorities advise that citizens remain alert, but that they should still carry on with their daily lives._

_“And just in time for the lovely weekend weather, too. There are clear skies up ahead for those looking to enjoy some time outside this Saturday and Sunday. We’ll have the forecast after this commercial break.”_

The tune of an annoyingly upbeat car commercial promptly drove your train of thought into a ditch, and your mood went right along with it. You abruptly paused the video and welcomed the silence that met your ears as a result. Your fingers fumbled a bit in an attempt to push the appropriate buttons in your haste, to rewind the video and scrutinize the image of Andre Campbell: a young man, recently married, who apparently had no memory of buying plane tickets from New York to Paris, France.

You didn’t know the man, hadn’t seen him before a day in your life, but you were familiar with the mark he had emblazoned on his arm, and that was more than enough to have you fidgeting in your seat. You’d seen it ingrained in the skin of other men and women one warm summer night, an inky and mottled amalgamation of jagged lines that warmly glowed like dying embers in the dark. It was a sign of unwanted servitude, and it was one you once had upon your own flesh not too long ago before you had broken free, against all odds, and fled without the slightest care about your loss of dignity in doing so.

“Hey, are you still there?” a familiar voice spoke near your ear, a comforting anchor that reached out to you amidst a raging tide of conflicting emotions. You remembered all too quickly that you were on the phone with Ashley who was patiently awaiting a response, her fingers no doubt drumming against her leg in her telltale sign of discomfort. You wasted no time in responding in the only way you currently knew how.

“Shit. Just—shit.” A large, ragged breath pushed its way past your lips before you tried again in a slightly steadier voice. “Yeah, I’m still here, Ash. Sorry.”

“Good. I’m guessing you finished watching the video I sent. I tried to enhance the footage to try and get a good look at the guy, but the quality was pretty bad to begin with—recorded on a phone, most likely. It’s still piss-poor, but this is the best I can do on such short notice. My job would be a lot easier if the crime scene still looked like, you know, an actual crime even occurred.” Ashley gave off a frustrated sigh, grumbling all the while over Ladybug’s baffling ability to repair the destruction that befell the city in a literal blink of an eye. “I mean, what even is she, a superhero or a magical construction worker?”

You ran a tired hand down the side of your face in exasperation. “Ashley, sweetheart, focus please.”

“Alright, fine. Just chill for a bit, I’m sending it to you now.”

“Sure, sure,” you dismissed half-heartedly.

It was silent for a moment, save for the sound of shuffling papers and the hurried clacking of swift fingers against a keyboard through the speaker. You took that moment to slide further down in your seat, with one hand still firmly wrapped around your phone while the other tinkered about with your own laptop. A new tab was opened, and within minutes your screen was littered with links to cat videos that transported you to a more comfortable, more adorable frame of mind. The true weight of your current situation was temporarily lost beneath the calming image of a kitten teetering precariously upon its hind legs, swatting innocently at a piece of dangled yarn.

For a moment the Earth stood still and things felt normal again. You could breathe once more at a steady rate, both lungs working in tandem to fill you with sweet, sweet oxygen. Breathing felt great, so great in fact that you became acutely aware of the warm and inviting atmosphere around you that smelt strongly of roasting coffee beans and tea leaves. You could hear the subtle movement of the people around you, every clink of silverware against white porcelain plates, the shuffling of feet against the scuffed hardwood floor, the hushed gossip of a group teenagers somewhere to your right. When Ashely spoke up two minutes later you felt less like a bumbling, maladjusted mess and more like the competent, stout-of-heart individual you liked to believe you were.

“Alright, all done. It should be in your inbox. Do you see it?”

“Hold on a sec,” you mumbled, pausing the video before switching tabs once more to view your emails.  
After refreshing the page you caught sight of a new message entitled “POSSIBLE SUSPECT”, and though your fingers itched with the need to open it up right then and there, you knew better than to read through its contents in such an open area.

“Yeah, I got it. Thanks Ash, I’ll take a look at it when I get home.”

“Caught ya’ at a bad time, didn’t I?”

“As always. I was in the middle of finishing up some homework. Your bad timing is absolutely impeccable,” you lightly joked in an attempt to lighten the decidedly heavy mood before continuing on in a monotonous tone, “How do you do it?”

“That’s a trade secret, I’m afraid,” she replied, and you could all but envision the stupid grin on her face. “Anyway, as far as I can tell yesterday seems like it was just an isolated event. I doubt it’s anything to worry about, but go ahead and take a look at the pictures I sent you later when you get the chance, see if you recognize anything important. I going to keep looking into things on my end. Stay safe, don’t go looking for trouble.”

You grumbled out some halfway coherent response before ending the call and closing your laptop, and that’s when the anxiety really set in. Sure, you liked a good thrill every now and then, but if you had known that sticking around through yesterday’s mayhem could have potentially run the risk of blowing your cover you would have steered clear of the whole thing like the fucking plague. You were certain your lips had pulled themselves into a taut line beneath furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, and you hid your face behind both hands as you leaned your elbows against the rickety table in an attempt to calm down.

So it was only a natural response for your heart to plummet to the pit of your stomach at maximum velocity when a well-dressed man suddenly appeared beside you. He took one look at your startled face and tense posture before a meek and apologetic expression colored his features.

_“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. I just thought you might like a refill,” he stated, coffee pot poised and ready above the empty ceramic cup by your arm._

Slowly your brain put two and two together. It was just Nathanael. Kind, awkward, soft-spoken Nathanael, with his totally unimposing posture, offering you more coffee because doing so was his job and you were a paying customer. You were at La Bossue, that one café you had at first mistakenly translated as The Humpback instead of The Hunchback, and were left to wonder why anyone would name their store after humpback whales. It was a safe place, and you were safe too, and in that brief moment of reaffirmed safety you were made painfully aware that your continued silence was quickly making things awkward.

Shifting mental gears, you hastily tried to formulate a response to ease the worried light in Nathanael’s turquoise eyes. _“No, it is my fault. I was too caught up in here.”_ You unfurled your fingers from the tight fist they had formed to sheepishly tap the side of your head. _“Some more coffee would be great though, thank you.”_

Nathanael nodded and with slightly unsteady hands poured you another drink. _“Not a problem. You’ve been working so hard, and you look like you need it.”_

_“I kind of do. I am, how do you say—? A dead man?”_

No, wait, that wasn’t right. Well, technically, it could be right if you were caught hiding out in Paris, and honestly that line of thinking wasn’t helping at all, _what the hell is wrong with you—?!_

Before you could try again, Nathanael kindly supplied you with the correct phrase. _“You mean you feel like a zombie?”_

He smiled more confidently as your eyes lit up in recognition of the word, and you quickly used it to drive the conversation towards a less internally glum direction. _“Yes, yes. Zombie. I have not slept since Wednesday.”_

The speed with which his calm expression was once again replaced with a look of concern was mildly surprising. His eyes shifted hesitantly to your coffee cup, as though he thought he was now somehow responsible for your continued lack of sleep, before he pursed his lips in disapproval. It was a nice gesture, but you waved away his worries with a tired shake of your head.

_“I am fine. Things will be easier later.”_

You patted the textbooks beside your laptop for emphasis and hoped he understood the point you were trying to make. He examined them with curious eyes, perking up considerably as he took notice of a hefty volume on the subject of art history.

The coffee pot was carefully discarded onto the table as his hands moved to open the book and flip through its pages. He paused abruptly in his movements shortly afterwards however and looked to you, as if silently asking for permission to continue touching your belongings. _“Where do you go to school, if I may ask?”_

It was a simple question that caused your easy-going expression to falter, and the cold, refined alarm that seized your heart nearly threw your thoughts back into another fatal nosedive. Why was he asking, and what would he do with that knowledge?

But then you remembered the countless times you had come to La Bossue in the last three months, recalled the withdrawn and skittish way Nathanael behaved those first few weeks. He had served you coffee nearly every time, at this exact table tucked away from the rest between the window and a charming vase full of daffodils, with nothing but pleasant though somewhat awkward smiles, and all of a sudden you felt more than a little ridiculous . . .

You pushed the textbook into his hands encouragingly. _“Françoise Dupont University.”_

_“Seriously? I go there too, for graphic design.”_

You quirked an eyebrow. _“Fine arts. How have we not discussed sooner?”_

He shrugged his shoulders in a rather lazy manner. _“It never really came up, and we’re both usually too busy working to chat for long.”_

You gave a nod and a quiet hum of approval. _“You are here often.”_

 _“Have to pay my way through school somehow, right?”_ The almost pained laughter that accompanied that statement helped to ease the tension in your shoulders, and you soon found yourself quietly chuckling with him. You could definitely relate to that horrible sentiment—poor college students unite, and all that. Then suddenly, as if he were just reminded that he was still on the clock, Nathanael returned your textbook before hurrying to clear away the empty plates from your table. _“Oh shoot, I have to get back to work. Maybe we can get together and draw sometime though?”_

For a moment you were baffled by his forward suggestion, the inexplicably friendly and hopeful look on his face as you contemplated the idea of having some semblance of a regular college experience. One that involved friends who didn’t live halfway around the world. _“I think I would like that.”_

Your small smile must have been contagious, because Nathanael’s face was the perfect image of happiness as he left to meet up with his co-workers behind the sales counter. You caught a fleeting glimpse of a larger man patting Nathanael’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen before you returned your attention back to your textbook—

—And _oh shit, your assignment is due in three hours, bloody hell!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait between chapters! I can’t make any promises about faster updates, but do know that this story is constantly on my mind.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment or add this story to their favorites! I appreciate it more than I can properly express without a disgusting amount of exclamation points and heart emojis! Your words of encouragement give me strength to get off my butt and do better. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for baring with me, my slow updates, and the slow introduction of the plot and characters! The response I’ve had to this story thus far has been incredibly heartwarming. As a thank you, have this unusually quick update, jam-packed with 75% more cat action, plot development, and silly references than ever.

With a flick of a stiff plastic switch your small apartment was cast in a dim orange glow, a calming contrast to the harsh fluorescent lights of the city. It was a cozy space, for lack of a better word, a one bedroom affair that looked barren and uninhabited. In truth, you didn’t have much furniture and found little need for personal trinkets or knickknacks to liven up the place in case you needed to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. It made for one hell of a depressing-looking visual, the stylistic bane of interior designers across the world no doubt, but at the very least was easy to keep clean.

The hardwood floor was old and creaky, but aged in a way that made it aesthetically appealing in a way. A couch and lounge chair were pushed into the far corner of the room beside a small bookcase and a stumpy two-legged table, all in an attempt to fit a large punching bag in the middle of the floor with enough space to move comfortably around it towards the kitchen and bedroom. An unorthodox setup, certainly, but it worked well enough in the end.

You dumped your keys into the bowl on the table near the front door, kicked off your shoes, and then proceeded to throw your bag onto the springy couch. The past few days had been utterly exhausting, and a large part of you wanted nothing more than to flop unceremoniously onto your lump of a mattress and spend the next three days in a catatonic slumber. But you knew you’d never be able to sleep with the palpable fog of paranoia that still hovered around you, and so you eased yourself down into your favorite loveseat instead. After pulling out your laptop you set about the task of scanning through Ashley’s email, intent on finally answering some pressing concerns.

She had always been your eyes and ears, your dedicated super-sleuth extraordinaire and magic 8-ball all squished into one astoundingly intelligent girl—when she wasn’t being a total dork, that is. She had helped you through a crazy amount of unfortunate situations brought about due to your own recklessness.

So it was all the more disheartening when the images she had sent you offered very little in the way of usable evidence.

Attached to the email were three pictures, zoomed in and enhanced in an attempt to fix their pixilated quality. Andre Campbell looked as unfamiliar as he had the first time you had seen him, but now that you had a better look at his tattoo you could tell that something about it was different than it should have been, slightly off from the memory of what you knew it was supposed to be. Yet no matter how long and hard you scrutinized it you just couldn’t make out enough of its details to be sure. Despite Ashley’s best efforts the images were simply too blurry and out of focus, the result of some random citizen’s shoddy camerawork who’d, much like you had the other day, stuck around to take a few photos.

Speaking of shoddy camerawork, you were suddenly reminded of your failed attempt to get a picture of the Maison La Roche for your assignment at the very scene you were currently investigating. Digging your phone from your bag, you poked around on it for a bit, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as you found what you were looking for.

You stared down at your phone and Chat Noir’s cheery face stared right back, eyebrows raised and lips slanted in a cattish smirk as if the very picture of him were intentionally trying to offset your own unamused expression. You‘d never bothered to learn much about him or his partner Ladybug, wanting so little to do with anything hero-related that you had somehow managed to avoid most of the ever constant floodtide of rumors and gossip that surrounded them. Now that you had a good look at his face though . . .

There was just something about it that ticked you off.

And sure, maybe if you actually took the time to rationalize your sudden dislike of him you would be more than wholly convinced that you were merely projecting all of your stupid problems onto him because maybe, just maybe, you could see some long-gone part of yourself in that confident smirk of his. But hell, who had time for that when there were more important matters at hand?

Just as you were about to toss your phone onto the other side of the couch, something partially hidden behind the blonde vigilante caught your attention instead: the perfectly clear image of Andre Campbell, fully akumatized, with his glowing tattoo in plain sight. It was somewhat obstructed by the large weapon he held between his arms but it was there, it was visible, it was a lead, and that was more than enough to lift your spirits again.

Ashley was most likely still asleep at this hour, given your different time zones, but you sent the picture to her anyway knowing she would begin looking into it for you first thing in the morning. With that done you stood up, stretched, and decided it was about time you headed to bed yourself.

And just like that the world kept on spinning, turning long hours into even longer days that had been, much to your relief, as enjoyable as they could have been given your predicament. It had been boring, monotonous, but most importantly, it had been safe; No heroes clad in skintight outfits and bat-shit crazy villains reenacting a live performance of Godzilla vs. King Kong all over Paris. No ghostly ghouls from the past.

You had vanquished your evil backlog of homework, restocked your empty fridge, made tri-daily visits to your favorite café, and worked a tolerable 7 p.m. to closing shift at a mom n’ pop pizzeria near campus. The pay was decent, the tips laughable, and the customers at this hour were almost exclusively nothing but drunken college students looking to cure a bad case of the late-night munchies.

_**“Yes, Hello. How may I help you?”** _

_**“Would you like a side of hot wings with your order?”** _

_**“If we don’t deliver in forty-five minutes or less you get your meal for free.”** _

Those were the words you were ninety-five percent certain were muttered for all eternity somewhere down in the seventh layer of Hell, and no one would convince you otherwise. Sure, there were worse things to complain about besides gross pizza stains on your clothes and impatient customers with stopwatches looking for a free meal, but that knowledge alone did little to convince you that customer service was your life’s true calling.

You really hoped you weren’t doomed to be a pizza delivery girl until retirement age, because that thought was mildly horrifying. This was the absolute furthest thing you were going to school for, after all! What if you couldn’t find an art related job of some sort after graduation? What if you were stuck in delivery girl purgatory?!

Perhaps sensing your inner turmoil your boss, an older man with kind warm eyes and thinning salt and pepper hair, brought you out of your way-too-early-to-be-a-midlife-crisis crisis.

_“Hey, I’ve got an order for you. Last one for the night,”_ he announced, sliding an order ticket towards you with expertise from across the counter.

You picked up the slip of paper, thankful to have something to do, and read the address of the delivery out loud in slow, lumbering French.

_“I know you’re still new here. Do you need directions?”_

You shook your head while moving about the kitchen, slipping one large, incredibly hot pizza box into a delivery bag. _“No,”_ you paused, hands flailing, to blow on your singed fingers, _“I think I know how to get there.”_

He gave you a look, as if he didn’t quite believe you, but then relented with a simple nod and a genial pat to your shoulder. _“I’m locking up shop as soon as you’re finished, don’t forget to hurry on back to pick up your things before you head home.”_

With the box tucked between your thigh and arm, you sent your boss a dramatic wave goodbye as you shuffled past him and towards the door. “Will do, Mr. LaRue.”

You saw the old man roll his eyes at your obnoxious rhyme, having perfectly understood your English, before you stepped outside and was greeted almost instantly with the gentle caress of the warm Parisian air.

The breeze held a biting edge to it but was overall refreshing, smelled nothing like the scent of rising dough and thirteen blends of cheese you had hardly known existed. Something about the stars and bright city lights was enough to brighten your mood, and you whistled an out-of-key tune to pass the time during your peaceful stroll. The kind of peace that reminded you of your grandparents back home, the warm and fuzzy type that left you feeling childishly nostalgic and more than a little homesick.

And then you suddenly felt sick for an entirely different reason as a slew of angry voices pierced through the still and quiet night. You strained your ears to listen as the yelling grew louder, closer, and you decided to pick up the pace. Your leisurely stroll quickly turned into a brisk power-walk down the street because, _“Wait! Stop, thief!”_ and, _“Don’t just stand there, go after him!”_ were not things you wanted to hear at 11 p.m.

Your grand escape wasn't as grand as you would have liked.

From across the street you could see a moving shadow in the distance emerge from a narrow alleyway, dressed in perhaps the most stereotypical of nighttime thieving attire. You briefly wondered if maybe your bad luck was the direct result of some special pheromone that attracted trouble like dumpster trash attracted flies. That had been your first thought, which was promptly buried beneath the sudden realization that the thief had something disturbingly sliver in his hands and fucking hell, he was headed right in your direction.

You froze, stricken with a soul-crushing sense of déjà vu, but your mind pressed onwards; denying, accepting, observing, processing, analyzing.

He was running far too fast to abruptly change directions before colliding into you, and he was getting closer by the second.

His pursuers were somewhere nearby, but was nowhere in immediate sight.

You hated the idea of being held in a possible hostage situation.

He was armed with a weapon while the only thing you had on you was a useless box of pizza.

In a moment of sheer absolute panic, you did the first thing you could think of. You reared back, steadied your stance, and smacked the fleeing man as hard as you could in the face with the pizza box.

This action did not yield the desired effect you were hoping for—honestly, you don’t know what the actual hell you thought _would_ happen because holy shit was that stupid in hindsight—as the thief stumbled to the right and in a tangled mess of flailing limbs pulled you down with him.

You both landed with a grunt, with his elbow lodged unpleasantly into your ribcage, as something heavy clattered against the concrete with an audible clang. You grit your teeth and ignored the pain, fearing a fate far worse if you didn't act fast enough.

The man had regained his bearings the moment your fingers wrapped around something metal and cold, and it came as no surprise that he looked about three seconds away from ripping out your spinal cord and fashioning it into a fabulous necklace.

He was speaking fluid French that faded away in your ears before you could even attempt to translate what had been said. All you could think of in that moment was the look in his eyes. The red and blue lights of police cars, the concern on Ashley’s face, tears in your grandfather’s eyes, and the murderous anger your grandmother had felt that day.

That day. _That day_ , when you had walked away from your old life back home, an utter failure who couldn’t uphold your vow to protect others because you couldn’t even protect yourself.

Reality came back in a flash of red and black before you could bash the man’s face in with the metal pipe in your hand. The thief was pulled off you, revealing the endless sky speckled with millions of stars that all blurred together into one nauseating mess before your eyes.

Last week’s fiasco had been terrible, but this was somehow far worse on your list of shitty experiences in Paris. Because hell, it was one thing to be a thrill-seeking onlooker from a sizable distance away and something totally different to have danger literally hurtling _right at you._

Your head hurt. Your lungs burned. By the time your brain rebooted you realized you had missed a large chunk of some conversation and that your back felt really sore. Your ears still felt stuffed with cotton balls, but you tried to listen anyway.

_“You’re not getting away this time!”_ The voice sounded distinctly feminine yet tainted with frustration. It wasn’t familiar, but something in the back of your head told you that you knew who it was regardless. _“You and I are going to take a little stroll. First you’re going to return what you stole, and then you’re going to spend some quality thinking time behind bars. How’s that sound?”_

_“Screw you, Ladybug!”_

_“Aw, I just knew you’d agree.”_

Ladybug. Of course it was Ladybug, because you were in Paris where the chances of frantically fleeing thieves bumping into unsuspecting pizza delivery girls was much higher than you cared to agree with. And if she was here then Chat Noir wasn’t far behind. In the time it took you to slowly come to this realization the cat vigilante himself appeared before you.

_“Chat, how good of you to finally show up. My hands are kind of full, and I think that poor girl could use some help.”_

_“Better late than never, right?” He then turned his attention towards you. “Need a lift?”_

One look at his outstretched hand was more than enough for you to promptly decide that you would prefer it if the concrete opened up and swallowed you whole instead. Maybe it was your frightened and shamefaced expression, or maybe it was the fact that you looked absolutely pathetic laying on the ground with no intention of getting up until your heart dislodged itself from your throat—you didn’t know and you really didn’t want to find out. Either way, you hated the sympathetic light in Ladybug’s eyes when she looked at you.

_“Go on without me, Bugaboo,”_ her partner quietly insisted as he kneeled down by your side, _“I’ll meet up with you later.”_

The polka-dotted hero nodded, apologized to you for the trouble, and then took off just as quickly as she had appeared with the tied up criminal in tow. You were vaguely aware of the smothering silence that followed her departure, made all the more uncomfortable as Chat Noir hovered over you, when all you wanted was room to breathe. The ground had yet to relent to your wish to submerge into the pavement and disappear from sight like you had hoped, and so you sat yourself up and tried hard to collect your thoughts instead.

He lifted a hand hesitantly, paused, and then brought the appendage back down before it came anywhere near your shoulder. In much the same way he seemed to struggle for the right words to say that wouldn’t sound incredibly stupid when you clearly weren’t the least bit alright. Instead he gently took the pipe you hadn't noticed was still clutched between your fingers before asking, _“Were you hurt?”_

“I’m fine,” you quickly assured, realized seconds too late that you had spoken in English, and then repeated the phrase in French. Sure, you were shaken up but you’d been through worse. Even if you weren’t fine now you knew you would be later, and that was all that really mattered. As the adrenaline slowly wore off and you came to fully realize that the whole situation wasn’t nearly as dangerous as your mind had initially made it out to be, you wasted no time in shooing the hero away. _“Space. Give me space.”_

He backed up reluctantly with an ever-growing frown. _“Are you certain? You look a little glassy-eyed.”_

_“Does this look like a face that would lie to you?”_

You didn’t miss the confused quirk of his eyebrow as he closely examined your deadpan expression. _“I . . . can’t tell if that’s a joke or not.”_

Hell, you didn’t know if it was some weird jokingly dismissive coping mechanism either, but you didn’t dwell on it for long and you hoped he wouldn't either. A quick examination of the pizza next to you concluded that the pepperoni and pineapple pie had remained relatively unscathed despite its brutal mishandling. You closed the box as best you could, annoyed when the cardboard refused to lay flat.

All the while you were painfully aware of a scrutinizing pair of green eyes that were practically glued to your face. You could only assume it was Chat Noir’s attempt to decipher if you were truly okay without knowing, ironically enough, that his very presence was enough to make you exceedingly uncomfortable. But instead of pushing you further he offered a brief explanation instead.

_“I’m sorry that you caught up in this mess. We were just making the rounds, patrolling the streets, when we stumbled upon a robbery in progress.”_ He waited for you to stand up, assisting you despite your grumbled protests, before continuing. _“After all, when the cat’s away the mice will play and we can’t have that, now can we?”_

The self-satisfied grin he gave you in that exact moment couldn’t have been any more endearingly frustrating if he tried, though it helped dispel a bit of the tension. He honestly looked as smug as a cat who got the cream—

Damnit, now you were making awful cat analogies, too!

You pinched the bridge of your nose to rid yourself of that current thought before responding somewhat sarcastically, _“You have done a great job.”_ Because really, he could help take down a dude toting a laser gun but couldn’t outrun a petty shoplifter? You abruptly stopped, took a deep breath, and chided yourself for thinking that way. He only had the best of intentions, probably did the best that he could, and it wasn't his fault that you were so on edge. You didn’t have to be an unrelenting jerk. _“Sorry, that was rude of me.”_

Chat Noir’s confident expression quickly turned to one of sheepish resignation. He raised up a hand to ruffle his already messy locks of hair before shrugging his shoulders. _“No, it’s true. I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit rusty during my time away.”_

You looked down between the dented pizza box and the tiny scars along the skin of your knuckles and couldn’t help but think that you’d become a bit rusty yourself. A sigh passed your lips at the thought.

_“Thank you for the help.”_ His chest puffed up at the praise, and maybe if you weren’t so drained you would have rolled your eyes at his display of bravado, or appreciated his attempts to lighten the mood. _“I mean no harm, but I hope we do not meet again.”_

And just like that he deflated. _“Surely you jest, My Dear! You mean to tell me that you can resist a face like this?”_

You sure as hell could, and to demonstrate you turned around and began to walk away as fast as your wobbly legs could take you.

_“Wait, at least let me walk you home!”_

_“I’m still working, I have to go. Goodbye,”_ was your hurried and dismissive reply, and nothing but dejected silence came afterwards.

You felt kind of bad, but you pushed all your feelings aside to deal with on some other day that you hoped would never come.

The pain in your ribs was a welcomed distraction to focus on as the evening came to an end. You delivered the food without further incident, received no tip for the battered up box and lukewarm pizza, and trudged back to the shop to pick up your belongings on legs that felt suspiciously like ten-ton weights.

And if you noticed a certain blonde-haired individual tailing after you as you tiredly made your way home, you made no mention of it to Mr. LaRue and your co-workers as you all parted ways for the night.

\----------

Early that morning, while the sun had been partially hidden beneath the dark horizon, some nosy cat vigilante made sure to leave a crisp five dollar bill taped to the outside of your bedroom window alongside a note that simply read,

_A tip for you, My Dear; don’t leave your curtains open at night. Take care.  
—Sincerely, The Irresistible Chat Noir_

. . . You **_really_** didn’t appreciate the double entendre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might not be up as quickly as I was able to pump this one out, most of which I already had mapped out. I apologize if this turns out to be the case. Thanks again to those who have shown support and encouragement despite my turtle-pace! <3


End file.
